


Pass the Kanar

by Fanfic_For_The_Void



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcohol, Fluff, Happy Ending, Humour, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e22 The Wire, a bit of referenced angst to all the stuff that happened in the wire, tipsy shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25381585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfic_For_The_Void/pseuds/Fanfic_For_The_Void
Summary: After a long day at work, Julian shares a deeply discounted bottle of Kanar with Garak.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 38
Kudos: 119
Collections: Star Trek Fandom Potluck Collection





	Pass the Kanar

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about one month post The Wire, and is nothing but shameless fluff. I hope you enjoy! This fic was beta’d by @sunbeamstarship, and written for the Star Trek Fandom Potluck on tumblr.

Julian Bashir leaned against the wall, peeling back his red surgical cap. After seven long hours, the tumors had been successfully removed from Aina’s livers. The Andorian woman had stumbled into the infirmary just as he was about to leave for lunch, and nearly collapsed. Like many of his patients, he knew her in passing. She was a Dabo girl at Quark’s, with a friendly smile.

As Julian removed the gloves from his sweat-sticky hands his stomach growled. His shift was long over, and he hadn’t had a bite to eat since the morning. He was supposed to have had lunch with Garak, but that was long gone. Going over Aina’s vitals one last time, Julian wondered idly if Garak would be upset that he missed lunch without warning. He rubbed at his eye. The figures on the med scanner screen swam in front of him. When he looked up, Nurse Ghes was in front of him, making a shooing motion.

“You’ve been here too long boss, go home and eat something,” he said. “You know I’ll keep an eye on things.”

Bashir shot him a grateful smile. “Thanks.” 

He pulled off the last of the red overgear, stuffing it into the replicator. Stripped down to his uniform, the room no longer felt sweltering. Julian took what felt like his first full breath since the surgery had started. Walking out of the infirmary it hit him just how hungry he was. He could apologize to Garak later, but right now he needed food. 

He half jogged to Quark’s, craving bangers and mash. Before long, he sat at the bar, wolfing down his meal.

“You normally eat fast, but this must be some kind of record,” Quark needled, leaning on the bar.

“Long shift,” Bashir mumbled around a mouthful. No waste word. Eat.

“So I heard. Is Aina going to be okay?”

This gave Julian pause. It wasn’t often that something Quark said could be construed as compassionate. He put down his fork.

“Yes. She will make a full recovery.”

“Good. When Aina’s working, I get twenty percent more traffic at the Dabo table. Can’t have her dying on me.”

“Heaven forbid someone think you care about her Quark,” Bashir teased, sawing away at one of the sausages on his plate.

“I care about profits,” Quark grumbled. “But while we’re on the subject, have this,” he continued, disappearing behind the counter. He re-emerged holding a dark spiraled bottle.

“Kanar?” Julian asked, frowning at the Ferengi.

“On the house,” Quark confirmed. “Consider it a thank you for healing my best Dabo girl.”

Bashir’s brow furrowed. “Free of charge? That doesn’t seem very profitable.”

“Consider it an investment. Go find someone you like, and share the bottle with them. Every time you bring a new girl here and buy her drinks, that’s latinum in my pockets. You haven’t done that in far too long.”

“Now you’re starting to make more sense,” Julian said, putting his utensils down with a clink. “But kanar? This stuff’s undrinkable.”

Quark rolled his eyes. “Overstock. Take it or leave it.”

Julian sighed, paying for his meal with a quick thumbprint. Not one to back down from a challenge, he grabbed the proffered bottle, and headed for the exit.

“Visiting hours are from 13:00 to 17:00 tomorrow if you want to see Aina,” he called behind him. As much as Quark claimed to not care, Julian was sure he’d be there.

As he left the bar, he shook his head with a smile. Quark certainly was a character. Was he right though? Had it really been that long since his last date? Julian headed to his quarters, considering this. Now that he thought about it, it had been at least two months, maybe three since he had taken a woman out for dinner, but try as he might, he couldn’t think of a girl he’d like to share the kanar with. Even if he could, it had been a long day. Meeting someone new was more than he had in him.

Besides, only Cardassians liked kanar. It occurred to Julian that he was in luck. He just so happened to have a Cardassian friend who he owed a lunch. No awkward first date pretenses required.

Bashir changed direction and headed for the tailor’s shop. When he was halfway back to the main shopping area of the promenade he turned on his heel again. It was nearly 22:00 hours on a Tuesday. Garak would have already closed shop. Quarters.

As Julian made his way to the habitat ring, he could feel the day’s weight lifting off his shoulders. He would love nothing more than to get out of his head.

If he was going to see Garak, he would do well to mentally prepare himself. Last week he had borrowed a copy of  _ The Shattered Line _ , another long winded Cardassian epic on family, sacrifice, and secrecy. It had been the usual level of dull, but the structure was rather elegant. Julian began piecing together arguments as he stepped onto the turbolift. By the time he arrived at Garak’s, he was buzzing with ideas. In the month since the chaos of the tailor’s wire failing, the two had settled back into their routine. Lunch, banter, repeat.

Bashir pressed the keypad, and a friendly chime sounded.

“Enter,” his friend called from within. When the doors opened, Julian saw Garak reclining on a couch, padd in hand. He looked up and turned to face him.

“Ah, Doctor Bashir! I had lost all hope of seeing you today.”

“I’m sorry Garak, someone came in right before lunch, and I had to operate. In fact I only got out about half an hour ago,” Julian replied. He made his way over to the couch and flopped down onto it. “Do you mind?” he interjected. Garak looked at him, eye ridges raised.

“Not at all, my dear doctor, make yourself at home,” he said, looking politely bemused. It was just then that Julian realized he had shown up to Garak’s quarters uninvited, with a bottle of kanar, and commandeered his couch. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Ah, yes. Well, you see, Quark gave me this kanar, and told me to share it with someone,” Julian said, gesturing sheepishly to the bottle he held.

Garak placed his padd to the side, and tilted his head. “For free? That seems very unlike the good bartender.”

Julian waved this aside. “He called it an investment, said I haven’t been bringing enough girls to the bar, and I should go lure one in with this,”

“Forgive me for saying, but that does not seem like a very efficient business model,” Garak said, eyes wide.

Julian nodded, and leaned in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, it’s just his way of saying thank you. The person I had to operate on today was one of his Dabo girls.”

“The procedure was successful then, I assume?” Garak confirmed.

“Yes,” Julian replied with a smile. It had been a tough surgery, with a close call or two, but everything had turned out alright in the end.

“How good to hear,” Garak expressed, clasping his hands in his lap. “But as delightful as your company is Doctor, why are you here with an old tailor, rather than some fresh young thing on the promenade?”

Julian laughed at this. “No fresh young thing will lecture me on Cardassian literature.”

“Or appreciate this rather lovely bottle of kanar you’ve brought. Wasted on you non-Cardassians.”

“It’s good?” Bashir asked. Garak held out his hand for the bottle.

“Not exceptional, but good enough that even you with your human stomach may enjoy it,” he determined, inspecting the label in looping Kardasi script.

“Well. Should I replicate some glasses?” Julian inquired, smiling as he leaned back. Quark had given him  _ good _ kanar.

“Be my guest,” Garak intoned. He removed the stopper, and swirled the syrupy brown liquid within. “This is fairly strong,” he pointed out.

“Oh, really?” Bashir asked, cups in hand. He inspected the alcohol as he sat back down on the couch, folding his legs under him. He couldn’t tell from here.

“Yes. The thickness gives it away.” Garak explained, holding the twisted bottle to the light. “A quality kanar is dark, thick,” he turned to look at Julian, holding his gaze, “and  _ sweet _ .” 

His eyes bored into Julian. He swallowed, and Garak broke into a smile that seemed a little left of friendly. Julian returned it. That was the thing about Garak. He kept you on your toes.

“W-” Bashir coughed, clearing his throat. “Will you pour me some?” It was then that he noticed just how warm the Cardassian kept his quarters. The tailor plucked a glass from Julian’s hand.

Garak dispensed the kanar with a practiced twist of the wrist. He handed Bashir a glass. Julian contemplated its inky depths, and gave it a sniff. It smelled like rotten vegetables, and he could only hope it did not taste the same. 

He looked between Garak and his kanar. In the tailor’s glittering eyes was a clear challenge. Julian strengthened his resolve and threw back the liquid like a shot. He almost choked. It burned like hell and didn’t taste much better.

Julian wiped his watering eyes. “You were right. That is strong.” He smiled weakly.

“And did you enjoy it?” Garak asked, looking like the perfect picture of the cat that had eaten the canary.

“No,” Julian answered cheerfully, although now the bitter, burning vegetable flavour had dispersed, leaving a sweet aftertaste. “Pour me another, will you?”

Garak sipped at his kanar, eyebrow ridges raised. “If you insist. However, I do caution you. This is no children’s drink.”

Downing his second glass, Bashir pointed at Garak. “And I’m no child.” He could feel his cheeks starting to flush. It really was very warm in here.

Garak snorted, draining his own glass. “Very well. What did you think of  _ The Shattered Line _ , doctor?”

“I thought it was…” Julian paused, searching for the words as he adjusted his collar. “Um...” Could the kanar be getting to him already? “A rather aggressive take on familial responsibility. Was it truly necessary for Thrett Rik to murder his illicit children?”

“Aggressive? He did his duty most humanely, my dear doctor,” Garak asserted, clasping Julian’s shoulder. His hand was cool and solid, a contrast to the room, which was feeling ever softer at the edges. “If you fail to see this, your understanding of Cardassian values is severely limited. One could even consider your interpretation… childish,” Garak finished, self satisfied smile growing.

Julian opened his mouth to complain, affronted. No. This was what Garak wanted. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Julian mustered his wits, and pulled on a thread of plot that had been bothering him. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t believe Rik actually did kill his children, or himself. From chapter thirty seven onwards, the story is told from his friend’s perspective, who is in the government. It can almost be read as a report,” he explained, putting his now empty glass to the side.

“Is that so?” Garak asked, eye ridges raised. Julian grinned. 

“Yes. The Cardassian government killed his children, and then him, because he refused to kill them himself. He didn’t commit suicide out of guilt at all. The story his legal family hears is a fabrication, as told by his former friend in the last three chapters. Thrett Rik is a dissident hero, silenced by an oppressive government,” Bashir pressed on, gesturing excitedly as Garak looked on expectantly.

“Why Doctor, that analysis is much more befitting of a man of your intelligence. What a shame that you missed the most crucial part of its message,” Garak said as he poured himself another glass of kanar. Julian rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you enlighten me, my  _ dear _ Garak?” he asked, settling into the couch, arms draped over the back. Garak made a small choking noise, his sip of kanar interrupted. Julian smirked. After nearly two years of ‘my dear doctor’ left and right, it seemed that the esteemed tailor was not prepared to receive the same. Garak coughed discreetly into his sleeve, and Bashir’s smile only grew wider. “Down the wrong pipe?” he prodded.

“Quite,” Garak complained, straightening his tunic indignantly.

“Why Garak, maybe you’ve had too much to drink,” Julian insinuated, leaning in. “Isn’t this already your third glass?”

“Yes,” Garak said, squinting suspiciously.

“Aha!” Julian exclaimed, lunging forward and yanking the glass out of his hand. “No more kanar for you, doctor’s orders!” He leapt off the couch, as Garak swiped at the drink. Julian gleefully evaded him, dancing behind the couch.

Garak’s face was the perfect picture of shock as he spun to face Bashir. “I think not! It is far more likely that you have over-imbibed,” he said. 

“Oh, what with my human liver?” Julian replied with a chuckle. “You’re probably right, but Garak…” the doctor trailed off. He didn’t know how to parse what he was thinking. The last time he had seen Garak drink, the man was drowning his sorrows, washing away the pain of his malfunctioning wire. Julian leaned on the back of the couch for support. How stupid was he, bringing him alcohol? He grimaced, staring into the kanar. 

“Doctor?” Garak murmured. Julian looked up, surprised at the change of tone. It struck him as funny that the tailor was the one looking worried.

“I can tell you’re not very drunk,” Bashir sighed. Then the words came spilling out. “I’m an idiot. I brought you alcohol, and you nearly drank yourself to death when your wire failed. I can’t see you hurt yourself like that again,” he said, staring at Garak. Only a faint grey blush. Even now, his medical training had him analyzing the Cardassian, looking for signs of danger.

“Oh, Doctor,” Garak said, impossibly soft. “I was trying to escape then. I’m not trying now.”

Bashir laughed weakly. “You’re fine?”

“Yes.”

Julian handed Garak back his glass and sat on the couch again. “I trust you.”

Garak’s eyes widened. It wasn’t an exaggerated expression, like his usual, meant to sell an emotion. Based on the stifled intake of breath, Julian realized that this was Garak slipping. He had the feeling that had kanar not been involved, this glimpse of true emotion would never have been permitted.

“Why?” Garak asked simply.

Julian thought about it. Garak was by no means trustworthy. A Cardassian spy, once a member of the Obsidian Order, who probably knew at least seven ways to kill Julian with his thumb. Julian thought again. An exiled man who had once asked for his forgiveness. Garak had been violent, bitter and frighteningly suicidal when his wire had failed, but he had told Julian where the triggering device was, taking that first step. 

“Because you trust me,” he answered, looking his friend in the eyes. 

Garak scoffed, mask and smile back in place. “I would make a very poor Cardassian if I did. A true liability to the state,” he said, draining his glass. “This really is decent kanar.”

“I’m starting to see what you mean,” Julian replied, content to let Garak deflect. They weren’t nearly drunk enough for honesty. “It only tastes like rotten vegetables for the first few seconds, and-” Julian inspected the tailor anew, mentally reviewing the Cardassian medical files Tain had transferred to him last month. “No, you  _ are  _ intoxicated! Your ridges are flushed, and your pupils are dilated!” he crowed triumphantly. Garak’s words may not have been slurred, but then again, he hadn’t made it through two bottles yet. 

“Can’t I keep anything from you Doctor?” Garak sighed, pulling at his collar. 

Bashir laughed at the irony of this statement. “If we’re both drunk we can really have fun.”

“Oh my, and what kind of  _ fun _ did you come here looking for?” Garak inquired, voice tinged with the usual innuendo. Julian felt a thrill of adrenaline. Thus the dance began anew. 

“The fun kind,” Julian said, giving Garak his most maddening grin. The tailor heaved himself off of the couch with less grace than Doctor Bashir normally attributed to him.

“Doctor, you are incorrigible,” he said. His words didn’t match his tone though, and Bashir caught the glimpse of a smile as Garak turned. As he made his way towards the replicator, he swayed slightly. Julian suppressed a chuckle as he folded his arms over the back of the sofa. Garak returned holding two glasses of water.

“It wouldn’t do for us to be dehydrated if  _ fun _ is what you have in mind.”

Julian hummed in agreement, downing his informal prescription. “Have you ever played a drinking game?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Garak said cautiously. 

Julian’s smile grew wider. “Truth or dare?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s an old earth party game. You have to choose between answering a question truthfully or doing something embarrassing, a dare. If you won’t do either, you have to drink,” Bashir explained. He knew that Garak would object on principle, but that’s where the fun was, in the push and pull.

“Every time I dare to think you humans might have some semblance of common sense, I am proven wrong. Exposing secrets and calling it a game?” Garak complained. Even as he did so, he refilled his and Julian’s glasses as the game dictated.

“Truth or dare?” Julian asked again, grin wide.

Garak flashed his devious smile, settling back into the couch. “I can see that you won’t give this up. Have it your way Doctor. I do warn you that should you inquire about Cardassian state secrets, you will be swiftly evicted. Dare.”

“Show me a Cardassian dance,” Julian challenged, sitting up straighter.

Garak’s mouth opened in a picture of surprise. “Ah, an excellent opening gambit. Very well, Doctor Bashir,” he said, grabbing Julian’s wrists. Garak’s grip was firm and self assured, cool on his right arm where his sleeve had ridden up. Bashir shivered involuntarily.

The tailor stood, pulling him out onto the floor. Julian swayed. He grabbed Garak’s arm. It was unfair that the Cardassian was still so infuriatingly cool.

“Give me a second,” he said with a chuckle.

“Take as much time as you need, my dear,” Garak replied with a small smile. Something about this struck Julian oddly. Considering it, he realized that it must be the tailor’s gaze. It held no insinuation or exaggeration. It was almost fond.

“I’m ready,” Bashir said. The room felt so bright, every colour amplified by the alcohol’s warm glow. Nothing was brighter than Garak’s eyes.

The tailor placed a hand on Julian’s waist, another sliding to his upper arm. Julian noticed how Garak’s scales reflected a little of the soft lighting. He felt a little giddy.

“Computer, play  _ Kaskes Minuet _ ,” Garak said to the room. “Doctor Bashir, if you would place your arms like so?” he said, moving Julian’s hands to mirror his own as the first strains of a melody permeated the air. Julian’s mind raced with a dozen thoughts, but the only one that stuck around long enough to percolate was how damnably  _ nice _ Garak looked in his midnight blue tunic.

“If we’re dancing, I think you can call me Julian.”

“Very well… Julian.” Doctor Bashir could see Garak savouring the word, seeing how it tasted. He liked the way Garak’s lips shaped around his name. Before Julian had too much time to think about Garak’s mouth, he was being led in a close three step rhythm. The dance was quick, but not unmanageable, even in his semi-intoxicated state. He took note of the footwork and adjusted accordingly.

“Ah, a quick study as usual,” Garak said, pulling Julian into a spin.

“Was that a compliment?” Bashir returned. He was only glad he hadn’t tripped over his own feet, hoping he came across smoother than he felt.

“Merely an observation,” Garak intoned with a tilt of his head.

“Something can be an observation and a compliment at the same time,” Julian countered.

“Very true,” Garak replied. “Would you have preferred it to be meant as a compliment?”

Julian flashed a grin. “Maybe.”

Garak laughed, a rich, resonant sound so different from the hollow, broken imitation that the doctor had heard a month ago .“Oh Julian, you never cease to amuse me.”

And the dance went on. Julian felt warm, happy and alive. Eventually, the music swelled to a final crescendo that fizzled into silence.

Garak performed a final sidestep, and the demonstration was over. Julian could see the rise and fall of his chest. The two stood for a moment, smiles matching.

Gripped by a sudden impulse, Julian slid his hand down from where it rested on Garak’s arm, and grasped his hand. He bent forward with a dramatic sweep and pressed a kiss to the finely scaled grey knuckles.

“Thank you for the dance, darling,” he said, voice an exaggerated shade of sultry. Garak’s look of surprise made it instantly worth it. Julian collapsed back onto the couch, stifling giggles. “Oh Garak, your face, it’s priceless!”

The tailor sat with a “hmph” that was reminiscent of a certain station security chief. Julian grinned widely. It wasn’t often that he could startle his cunning friend. 

An interesting idea passed through Julian’s brain. He flopped and turned gracelessly, nearly missing elbowing Garak. The end result was that his head was in Garak’s lap, and his legs hung over the other end of the couch. A look of bewilderment flitted across the tailor’s face, fading to a hint of a smile. No disparaging remark was made about the overly trusting nature of humans. The doctor was pleasantly surprised.

Garak extricated his arm from under the doctor’s back and draped it over his midriff. Warmth blossomed in Julian’s chest. The simple gesture yanked at his heartstrings for reasons he wasn’t sober enough to elaborate. Looking up at Garak, Julian saw whatever the hell he was feeling reflected in piercing blue eyes.

“What kind of dance did you just show me?” he asked. Something to fill the silence that was becoming a little too loud.

“A fairly common partner dance. It isn’t overly intimate, something you might see two strangers engaging in at an event.”

“Mmm. Are events with dancing common?”

“Common enough.”

They settled into a warm silence. Julian felt like he could float away, buoyed by the kind ministrations of the kanar, but the weight of Garak’s arm grounded him. He looked up at his friend, considering. The man was as settled into the couch as he was, looking down at Julian, eyes half lidded.

“You look good, Garak… relaxed,” he observed.

“I am relaxed,” he said, voice a low rumble.

Julian wound his arms around the limb Garak had so generously donated. Running a curious thumb along it he discovered that the quilted texture on the tailor’s sleeve was soft. Unthinkingly, he stroked Garak’s forearm, cataloguing the way the stitches felt under his fingers.

“Goodness. You are rather tactile, aren’t you?” The owner of the arm inquired with an amused lilt.

“Oh damn, I do get grabby when I’m sauced don’t I?” Julian groaned. “I should have warned you.”

“I'm not complaining,” Garak replied. 

Julian laughed. “Oh, but so many of my friends do!”

“Do you often throw yourself at them when you’ve imbibed?” 

Bashir rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Ah, and here I was thinking I was special.”

“Hey,” Julian frowned. “You are special.”

“Is that so?” Garak asked, eye ridges raised.

“If you’d like, I could throw myself at you extra hard! I could cling onto you like a koala,” Bashir giggled.

“I don’t believe I could handle that my dear,” the tailor said. “Not with these old bones.”

“You’re not old,” Julian snorted. Garak may not have been young, but one look into those piercing blue eyes would set straight anyone who dared to think him past his prime.

“Oh, I’m a sentimental old fool,” the tailor said with a wry smile. “But only while tipsy.”

Bashir squinted up at his friend. “I don’t see it, Elim,” he murmured, reaching up to straighten Garak’s collar. The edge had folded in on itself.

His friend merely smiled and shook his head. “You wouldn’t. I would like to know though, where you learned that that name belongs to me.” The Cardassian’s eyes flashed dangerously.

Julian froze, one hand holding the offending edge of Garak’s tunic. 

“Tain,” he admitted with a grimace, mentally kicking himself. He wouldn’t have made this slip sober. Retracting his hand, he winced. It had seemed so natural at the time.

“Ah,” Garak sighed. “A cardinal rule of secret keeping. Never leave anyone alive who knows the truth,” he said with a rueful smile. “I do believe I would have told you eventually.”

Julian softened. “That’s good to know,” he replied, relieved. “If you’re calling me Julian, can I call you Elim?” 

Garak smiled enigmatically. “Sometimes.”

Bashir laughed. “I shall be discreet.”

“How nice to hear,” the tailor said. “But I believe you owe me something. Truth or dare?”

“Oh!” Julian had almost forgotten the game. “Dare,” he answered. 

“Since I have demonstrated a Cardassian dance, I think it only fair to ask you to return the favour,” Garak said, smile becoming markedly more smirkish.

“I suppose I walked right into that one,” Julian said. He rolled off the couch onto the floor with a thump. To his alcohol fogged brain, it had seemed like the best course of action. Garak’s laughter from above made him reconsider.

“Oh shush,” Bashir complained, heaving himself to a standing position. “I think I’ll show you the waltz, it’s classic.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor.”

“I thought I asked you to call me Julian,” Bashir said, winding an arm around Garak’s upper back. “Put your arm on my shoulder… Good.” He clasped his dance partner’s other hand, palm to palm. The tailor stiffened, and drew in a breath. “Is something wrong?” Julian asked, brows furrowed.

“No,” Garak replied carefully, looking somewhat perturbed. “This is a rather intimate dance, isn’t it?”

Bashir frowned. “Not really?” Yes, they were standing a little closer for this dance, but the waltz wasn’t known for its sexuality. 

“Ah, I think I understand,” Garak said, face clearing. “Lead away, Julian.”

Bashir filed this puzzle away for later analysis, and did as instructed.

Garak took to the looping pattern of the dance well. Once Julian was certain that he had the footwork mastered, he released the man’s waist and raised his arm. Attempting to steer Garak into a spin was not as successful as he would have liked. The Cardassian stumbled, and shot Julian a withering look.

“Sorry!” Julian chuckled, reaching out to steady his friend. “I was trying to twirl you. For the waltz, you spin by yourself sometimes.”

Garak frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, let me show you,” Bashir said. “Hold up your arm and I’ll just…” He recaptured his dance partner’s hand and executed what he considered to be a passable spin.

“That is rather elegant,” Garak conceded with a tilt of his head.

“Watch this one,” Julian said, throwing himself to the side. The pair balanced apart for the briefest moment, outstretched hands joined. Julian rolled back in, winding Garak’s arm around him.

“Oof,” Garak complained as the doctor collided with him. The doctor’s head felt as though it were still a couple feet away. He gripped the arm wrapped around his chest, steadying himself. 

“I think you get the idea,” he said, turning to face his dance partner. He wasn’t sure how much more dancing he could handle. It had in fact been a long day. “Waltz.” Julian summarized, with a wave of his hands. “Truth or dare?” he asked, slinging an arm around Garak’s shoulders with a grin.

“Ah!” Garak looked at Julian with an appraising eye. It was then that Bashir realized just how close he and the other man were. He inhaled, detecting some faint scent of cologne. Julian felt tingly. Blame the kanar. Garak squinted a little. “Truth.”

A slow smile spread across the doctor’s face. “I didn’t expect that.”

“What can I say?” Garak purred as he twined an arm around Julian’s back. “I am, as the humans say, full of surprises.”

Julian laughed aloud at this. Always the game. “Okay. When we first started the waltz, and I grabbed your hand. What was that about?” If Garak wanted to play, he would prove himself a challenging opponent.

“Whatever do you mean, Doctor?” Garak evaded, eyes glinting.

Julian fixed him with a look. “You said that the waltz was intimate. Why?”

A rueful smile passed over Garak’s features. “Yes. For Cardassians, the touching of hands can be markedly intimate. To hold someone’s hand during a dance would be akin to pressing your lips to your partner’s during said activity. I had realized that it was not the same for humans.”

Julian’s mouth opened in shock. He groaned and let his head thump onto Garak’s shoulder. “My Cardassian sociology textbook failed to include that information.” 

His face burned. The first time he got to kiss Garak, and it was an accident. Bashir’s brows furrowed. Where had that come from? He stole a peek at his friend’s face. To his relief, the tailor looked amused, rather than affronted. Julian analyzed the man’s face. Since when had he wanted to kiss those cool grey lips? Run his hands through that silky mane of black hair or- With an aggrieved sigh, Julian let his head fall back onto Garak’s shoulder. 

Okay. Okay. He could handle this. He’d been attracted to men before. Human men, mind you. But Garak… The weekly lunch dates, the constant flirting. It was all a game, wasn’t it? Garak loved to play games. It certainly couldn’t be that-

“Julian?” The tailor murmured, derailing his train of thought. Bashir looked up, eyes wide. “Are you quite alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Julian squeaked, rearranging his face into something resembling neutrality.

“Truth or dare,” Garak asked carefully. Julian was all too happy to let his friend gloss over whatever the hell that just was.

“Truth.”

“Why did you really come to my quarters?”

“For a bit of enjoyable company,” Bashir replied, grinning. It wasn’t much of an answer, but like in the best of Cardassian literature, the most important things were never said outright. Garak shot him a look that was a curious blend of impressed and amused, all eye ridges and parted lips. “Truth or dare?” Julian queried with the ghost of a smirk.

“Dare.”

Before Julian could stop his stupid,  _ stupid _ mouth, the words came tumbling out. “I dare you to kiss me.”

Panic flooded his body. 

Before he could pass it off as a joke, or apologize vehemently, Garak pulled him in with the almost forgotten arm around the small of his back, other hand coming up to cradle his head. Julian’s breath hitched, and a shiver went down his spine. Then Garak was kissing him. 

Instinctively, Julian tangled his fingers in that inky hair, gripping onto the man’s waist for stability. For all the strength that Garak had pulled him in with, his embrace was achingly gentle, the kiss near reverent, the barest press of lips. Julian could have melted. Even through all the adrenaline rushing through his body, he could feel tension in Garak’s arms. The Cardassian was perfectly still, waiting. 

In answer to the silent question Julian surged forward, pressing chest to chest with Garak, holding tight. The man tasted faintly of kanar, mouth warm and sweet. Julian’s lips parted, and Garak responded in kind. The deepening kiss was intoxicating, a dance of its own that neither party was keen to end. Eventually, however, the physiological need for oxygen intervened. Garak and Julian broke apart, capturing shaky lungfuls of air. Julian delighted in the tailor’s wide eyes, and the visible rise and fall of his chest. A strand of hair had even worked its way loose from the sleek Cardassian coif.

“Elim,” Julian murmured as he leaned in again, voice barely a whisper. He was stopped by a firm grip on his shoulders.

“You’re drunk,” Garak said, gaze returning to something disappointingly dispassionate.

“So are you,” Julian replied, brows furrowing. Didn’t Garak want this?

“Go home.” The look in Garak’s eyes bordered on cold as he released Doctor Bashir, hands returning to his sides.

Julian’s stomach dropped. Standing frozen, a sick feeling spread through his limbs. He had gone too far, where the bonds of friendship prohibited. He felt dizzy, but not in a good way.

Not trusting himself to speak, Julian squared his shoulders with a brittle smile, giving Garak a curt nod. He marched out of the tailor’s quarters, refusing to look back. 

The next morning, Julian was dragged into the bitter realm of consciousness by a pounding headache. He groaned. He could practically taste the acetaldehyde coursing through his body, a result of all the alcohol he had metabolized last night when… Oh  _ no _ .

It was incredibly tempting to bury his head back under the Starfleet grey covers and hide until his next shift, which was tomorrow. Eventually though, he would run into Garak. Julian sighed, and hauled himself out of bed.

“Ow,” he mumbled, clutching his head. The doctor shuffled over to the replicator. “Acetal-X, twenty ccs.”

With a hum, a hypospray of Julian’s preferred hangover cure materialized. Injecting himself, he began running through mental drafts of an appropriate apology.

As Julian brushed his teeth, he winced, imagining Garak’s cool, patronizing retorts to whatever he managed to come up with. Glancing at the utilitarian mirror, he didn’t see a pretty picture. Hair in disarray, stubble growing in, and under eyes ringed in a bruise-like shade of purple, he resembled a raccoon more than a respectable doctor. Sighing again, Julian continued with his morning routine.

By the time he was finished, the lights in his quarters were no longer painful to look at, and he could think around the headache, which had quelled to something manageable. After a large glass of water, he was ready to face the day, or so he hoped. Thank the twenty second century physician who invented Acetal-X.

On the turbolift, Julian toyed with the idea of stopping by the replimat before visiting Garak’s shop. He would be lying to himself if he called it anything other than stalling for time. The thought of food nauseated him. Grimacing, he pressed his forehead against the wonderfully cool metal wall of the lift.

Stepping out onto the promenade, Bashir’s insides twisted. This was due not to nausea, but an arguably worse blend of anxiety and shame. It was just his luck that he chose last night to discover how he really felt about Garak. As he turned reluctant feet towards the tailor’s shop, he focused on crushing those feelings deep down, where they would never see the light of day. Julian wove his way through the thin morning crowd, twisting last night over and over again in his mind. The most he could hope for was to salvage the friendship.

Julian’s steps slowed as he approached a familiar set of metal doors. Through the windowpane he could see Garak seated at his worktable, leaning over a luminous swath of yellow fabric. Even at this distance he could see concentration on his face. Julian figured he must be doing detail work. Was it the embroidery on the gown he had been complaining about last week? 

Looking at his friend, Julian felt trepidation, but also a mysterious pull. Oddly enough, this wasn’t something new. Julian had always looked forward to his lunches with Garak, counting down the minutes to the end of his shift on Wednesdays. On the promenade, he would see a fashion disaster, or hear an interesting anecdote. His first thought would be how Garak would delight to hear about it. Even now the dozen metres between them was somehow too far of a distance. Steeling his nerves, and reeling in his thoughts, the doctor stepped into the tailor’s shop.

As the door chime sounded, Garak glanced up. Recognition crossed his face, but it smoothed out into his blandest customer service smile. Julian swallowed a wave of dread. That was not a good sign at all. The customer service smile meant deflection, courtesy, and not a hint of truth.

“Garak, about last night, I want to apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, and I understand if my actions ruined our friendship, but…” Julian paused, searching for a trace of emotion on the Cardassian’s face. “Well, I suppose there is no ‘but’,” he finished, mouth set in a grim line.

Garak’s mouth opened in an imitation of surprise. “Why Doctor,” he said with an indulgent smile. “You needn’t concern yourself so. I understand the effects of alcohol. It was nothing but a bit of harmless fun, no?”

Julian frowned, taken aback. He had been expecting cold, not a facade of warmth. “Then why did you kick me out?”

“You were drunk, Doctor. As entertaining as the concept of free love between friends is, I would have been taking advantage of you.” Garak’s smile looked a little more forced.

A weight lifted off his shoulders. Garak wasn’t offended, at least as far as he could tell. “I wasn’t that drunk. I knew what was doing as much as you did.” Julian challenged. Once the words left his mouth, he realized how suggestive they sounded. He winced internally. Freudian slip?

The tailor huffed, and refocused his attention on the yellow fabric he held. “You were drunk enough to want to kiss me,” he said. His voice was soft, and he didn’t meet Julian’s gaze. There wasn’t a trace of the customer service smile. 

Julian’s eyes widened as the final puzzle pieces fell into place. Last night, Garak had called him ‘my dear’. Not ‘my dear doctor’. Garak had called him Julian. Julian had called him Elim. A month ago, Garak had asked Julian to forgive him, not just for his past, but for hurting him. The second part was unspoken, in true Cardassian fashion. Then Garak had reached for his hand.

Now, the tailor looked at Julian. All pretense had melted away. Despite Garak’s near military posture, and stiffly neutral expression, he looked vulnerable.

“Garak,” Julian breathed, taking a step closer to the fabric laden table. No more deflecting. “It took me long enough to realize this, but I don’t have to be drunk to want to kiss you.” The world seemed poised on a knife edge. The doctor dared to hope.

Garak surged forward, capturing Julian’s lips and pulling him into a crushing embrace. The angle was awkward, and the press of lips was a little messy, but a heady sense of joy bubbled through Julian’s body. Blindly, he fumbled for the tailor’s hand. Lacing his fingers through Garak’s, he broke the kiss and tugged him out from behind the worktable. He met Garak’s gaze. The look of quiet wonder he saw in the man’s eyes soothed what little remaining doubts he had. 

“Elim?”

“Yes?”

“I’m just making sure, but this isn’t a friend thing, is it?” Julian asked, smiling sheepishly.

“It never was,” Garak replied, grasping Julian’s other hand.

Bashir grinned. How odd that a conversation with such a bitter start could fade to something so sweet. He leaned in for another kiss. On Garak’s lips, he could imagine the phantom taste of kanar.

“I still owe you lunch, Garak. Would you be opposed to dinner in my quarters instead?”

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a little scene I couldn’t figure out how to fit into the fic, so here, have a snippet from the dinner date that Julian proposed :)
> 
> “Garak, you never did tell me what you meant when you said I had gotten the message of The Shattered Line wrong,” Julian said, flashing a coy smile over the rim of his wine glass.  
> “I’m ever so glad you asked!” Garak exclaimed, putting down his fork and leaning in. “Your optimistic Federation values have once again interfered with your understanding. Rik was not a hero, or a martyr. His story is a cautionary tale. Betray the state, and you’re next. There is no such thing as a dissident hero on Cardassia.”
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you have a wonderful day!


End file.
